


A Dance of Blades and Blood and Desperate Love

by Rinari7



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Drinking, Centuries After Canon Ends, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Love/Hate, Mating Rituals, Mention of Non-Consensual Turning, Mention of Past Betrayal, Non-Lethal Violence, Post-Canon, Probably A Bit Dark, Sparring, Though I'd Call It More Hopeful Than Happy, Vampire Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 03:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12522108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinari7/pseuds/Rinari7
Summary: Nikola isn’t sure Helen doesn’t hate him. But she wanted to spar, and there’s little he’d refuse her right now. It’s as heated as he expected, and more.





	A Dance of Blades and Blood and Desperate Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinknevertalks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinknevertalks/gifts).



> This fic owes its existence to her, my wonderful, patient beta and the person who encouraged me to write it in the first place. Thank you, lovely.

Helen circled him in a half-crouch on the mat, her form lithe and deadly, like a panther stalking its prey, like the hunter she was. Her teeth were sprung, bared, her claws long, but she held a blade in each hand, the metal flashing in what meager moonlight spilled between the heavy drapes over the window  — but then neither she nor he needed much light to see by, not anymore, not with the coal-black eyes they now shared. The diurnal majority of the Sanctuary was asleep, and the silence was almost a creature unto itself, lurking, heavy with their history and unspoken words, with bone-deep love and desperate actions and helplessness and hot burning rage. Only their soft pants and quiet growls and the shuffle of shoes on the sparring mat dared break it.

He watched her, turning to keep her in his field of vision, playing with his own blade — a single long knife — twirling it. He far preferred his claws, but she had insisted and there was little he would deny her right now.

Her knuckles were white where she gripped her weapons, her eyes steel and storm, and he saw the moment she decided to pounce. A feint, a stab: one-two, he blocked the one and twirled away from the other, a nonchalant participant in a dance usually so deadly — but not for them, no, never again for them.

Another scratch had joined the ones already marring this suit — she'd surprised him with this proposal, this  _ demand _ — but he had other clothes. She was alive and that was all that mattered. “You're getting sloppy. I could read that from a mile away.”

She stilled for a moment, and barked a laugh. “It's not as if I particularly need finely-honed combat skills, now, do I?” And yet she still circled. “Besides, you only saw that one coming because I wanted you to.”

She darted forward, with new supernatural speed and her own precision, her blades a crack of lightning. He moved to counter, to strike back, and she retreated out of reach.

He followed; the chase was on, now, across the mat and back. He reached for her; she deftly avoided his claws, a teasing grin on her lips. She pressed forward to slash at him, grazing him as he attempted to weave away. He struck at her; she blocked him, the ring of metal echoing in his ears.

Finally, he stopped, and just watched her, and she slowly approached, carefully, wary, though he wasn't sure of what — a mirror of their relationship over the years, somehow. An ache built in his chest, yawned, gaped. There was blood staining his shirt, he just noticed now, almost idly, one sleeve sliced in half from the elbow down, a dampness at his collar.

“Why are we sparring, then, if you don't need it?”

She froze at his words, her expression twisting — rage, helplessness, soul-crushing sorrow and pain: after centuries together he could read every slant of her brow, every twitch of her lips, just as easily as if she were saying it aloud. He knew the answer to this, as well, but he needed to hear her say it, and  he suspected she needed to say it, too.

“Because I did need it. When I was  _ human _ .”

“You were never human,  _ dušo moja _ . Only thirty-six years.” Carefully neutral, matter-of-fact.

“When I wasn't a vampire, Nikola.” Her tone rebuked him, and she punctuated her words with a hiss. “Will you at least let me find some measure of comfort in old routines? Pretend for a moment nothing has changed? Won’t you give me that right now?”

“You don't want that.”  He let out a breath, slowly. “I'll give that to you if you ask, but you don't want it. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, in the dark, with me.” Inhale. “The Helen I know wouldn't want to even try to turn away from the truth.”

“Well, I'm hardly the Helen you know, now, am I?”

His breath died on his lips. Pain coursed through his arteries, sharper than a bullet wound, searing. He fought the urge to bare his teeth, the urge to scream. “Aren’t you? Does drinking blood make you a different person than you were before? You never were a vegetarian.” A dark chuckle built in his throat. “Did I change who I was when I turned?”

“Yes.” Flatly, her lip curling. “I saw it. Invincibility made you arrogant. You became obsessed with your so-called great ancestry, and forgot about actually helping humanity. You lost your sense of perspective and proportion, of right and wrong, because you thought yourself some sort of superior being. Especially after you went into hiding. It took becoming mortal again to knock a little humility and  _ feeling _ back into you.”

She might as well have socked him in the gut, and she knew it, too, by the flutter of her eyelashes as her gaze flicked away from his, and she swallowed. His arms hung uselessly at his sides as he stared, blindly, and tried to remember to breathe.

“I didn't —” His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “I was the same person. The same personality, same desires. Just no longer constrained by my humanity.”

“Exactly.” She punctuated this with an attack, ripping his shoulder open, metal slicing deep into the joint, making him snarl in pain, and she twisted away again as he only began to move to counter her. “Humanity, mortality, is not a cage. Not for most of us. And those for whom it is are often those who need it most.” Her gaze fixed on the blood running down his arm, her tongue darting out over her lips, her next words almost a whisper as she ripped her attention back to his face. “I didn’t — I  _ don't _ want to lose mine.” A deep breath, a wry huff. “What remains of it.”

“I'm sorry, Helen.” It wasn't the first time he'd said those words, the weight of his heart-rending regret and sincerity increasing as each day passed and he saw how very deep the wound he had caused her went. “I'm so sorry, and I'll keep saying that until you believe me. If I had to do it over again —” His voice broke, because he feared  _ I'd do it differently _ would be a lie. “I panicked. You were  _ dying _ , Helen, and there was nothing else I could think of. Tell me —” He inhaled, sharply, holding her gaze, his breaths shallow. “Tell me, if you had been the one watching me die — you wouldn't have done the same.” Low, he added, “You did it once already.”

“You  _ wanted _ to be a vampire, Nikola. You knew I didn't. You  _ knew _ , and you still turned me. I wasn't afraid of dying.” And yet, in that moment — was it really only two days ago? — he would have sworn he’d seen fear in her eyes.

She locked her knife with his, deftly flipped the weapon out of his hand. His mind was hardly on the spar, and she knew it. She punished him for it, too, slipping one of her knives into its sheath on her thigh and twisting his arm around behind his back, forcing him to his knees. Her remaining blade played along his throat, stopping just shy of drawing blood, her breath hot on his ear, her voice shaky. “John I came to terms with. But you… three hundred and twenty-two years, Nikola, since you came to live with me in that first underground Sanctuary. After all of that time, do my wishes — do  _ I _ —still matter so little to you?”  _ You were all I could truly rely on _ , she didn't say, but he still heard.

“You’re all I have.” Head bowed, he gave voice to both their sentiments. “It was selfish of me. I know that. But you would have done the same.”

“I know.” It was barely a whisper. “That doesn't mean it was a good choice. Not for me.”

“I could claim I did it out of some altruistic belief in your value to the world,  _ dušo moja _ —” he scarcely dared call her that, now, but she hadn't told him to stop, so far: one of the few things that gave him hope they'd make it through this — “but I’m afraid I did it entirely for me.” The words lodged in his throat, words he'd voiced only once before, hardly to any good reception, but he forced them across his tongue again now. “Because I love you.”

“That's not love, Nikola.” A rebuke, flat and bitter. “That's need.”

“Fine, then.” He twisted out of her grasp, attempting to twist the knife from her hand as well. Instead, the blade cut deeply into his palm, red spilling out along his lifeline. Her gaze darted to it, tongue flicking out over her lower lip once more. “I need you, Helen. I need you, and you need me.”

Backing away, he picked up his longer blade from the mat where it had fallen point first and sliced through the foam. “At some point you'll have to forgive me.”

She rushed him, and the ring of steel on steel echoed from the walls. He barely blocked her assault, resorting to using his claws and hands to keep her blade away from his torso and neck.

“I suppose you could try to kill me, too. But that's hardly very  _ human _ of you.”

“That would be  _ very _ ‘human’ of me, you utter ass,” she growled, and finally nicked him just between the neck and shoulder. Though his wounds closed quickly enough — the first few she’d given him already gone, completely healed — the scent of his blood was beginning to fill the room, a metallic tang, savory yet bitter. Helen inhaled, long and yet sharp, her attention flicking back to the blood trickling over his collarbone as she backed away.

“How long has it been since you last ate?” He spoke softly, almost as one might speak to skittish cat, or to a dear sleepy friend as one tucked a blanket around them.

She bit her lip, grimacing as her fangs pierced the skin, and swiped her tongue over the spot automatically. “Not since you transformed me.” Her admission was quiet, a little guilty.

Worry bubbled up, for the moment obscuring all his own sorrow and frustration. “ _ Helen. _ We can go a while without eating, but you need to eat  _ something _ . The change takes a lot out of you.”

“I  _ know _ , Nikola,” she snapped. “I've been studying abnormals my entire, quite substantial  lifespan, so don't patronize me.”

“Then why haven't you?” he growled. “You can't tell me you've forgotten what happened when  _ I _ didn't eat properly after our little experiment transformed me.”

“Of course I haven't forgotten.” She ended the indignant protest with a hiss. “I could hardly  _ forget _ you suddenly  _ biting me _ and  _ feeding on my blood _ .”

An impulse struck him. He drew his blade across the palm of his hand, reopening the previous wound, watching the blood well up, and he held it out to her. Her gaze was already dancing about, as she tried to look everywhere but at the red liquid slowly trickling down over his fingers. “How about I return the favor?” He watched her a moment, as her eyes widened, as she inhaled, as she swallowed heavily. He tilted his head to the side. “Or you could have my neck. Proper reciprocation.” He dropped his voice to a seductive purr. “You know how much I love your mouth on me.”

“Nikola…” Her voice was low, dark, a warning, a plea, reverberating with her new heritage.

He tilted his head further, his gaze locked to hers, daring her, as he brought his knife up to his neck, scraping the edge over his skin.

Helen surrendered at that, flicking his blade away with her own, before curling her fingers over his shoulder in an instinctive feeding grip. Still, she hesitated, her short, heavy pants hot on his neck.

He dropped his knife — he couldn't bear to use something besides his claws, not for this — and gently drew his sharp nails over her shoulder, dragging aside the collar of her jacket and leaving behind red trails that healed up almost immediately. She shuddered, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

“It's okay,” he murmured softly, holding her gaze. “It's not addictive.” He offered her a grin. “I'll even bite you back, if it makes you feel better. If you'll let me.”

She shook her head, and he nodded. A deep inhale, and then, “I've heard vampire blood has a terrible aftertaste.”

“We can get you some lamb's blood, if you'd prefer.” Yet he watched as she glanced down at his neck, felt her fingers curl a little tighter over his shoulder, and remembered his own first experience of that instinct, practically a need to know the sensation of blood pulsing beneath his tongue, at least once. “Either way, you're not biting a human.”

Suddenly, she sunk her teeth into the side of his neck. He let out a low hiss at the initial pain, but then came the sensation he remembered from once before — the slow, heady pull, his heart speeding up, pounding in his ears — and more, now, a sort of bond, unfinished, but growing, a fragile blossom, and — perhaps the strangest of all — the beginnings of his own arousal. Yet somehow it wasn't strange in the least, because this was Helen — her mouth on him, taking sustenance from him;  _ his mate _ rose unbidden in his mind.

She lifted her fangs from him only briefly, to murmur, “Bite me.”

“Helen, you've always said —”

“I know what I've said.” Her tone remained soft, almost dazed, full of all the affection she still seemed to so rarely show him, not like this. “Bite me. I suspect it's part of some sort of mating ritual.”

He smiled at the reminder of the scientist she still was, and wrapped his arms around her, threading the fingers of one hand through the hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her close with the other at the small of her back.

Her tongue swiped over the small wound on his neck, and a shudder ran through him. She continued, in that same quiet voice, “And I want to do this.”

It was all he needed to hear, and he carefully set his canines to her neck and bit down. Her blood seeped out and over his tongue, pulsing in time with her heartbeat, and with his. He could practically taste her emotions, a cocktail of elation, fear, contentment, anger, sorrow, desire. Mindful of her recent missed meals, he only drank a little, pressing his tongue to the wounds to stem the flow. She was not so careful, sucking greedily.

He swallowed, and felt no different. The aftertaste was indeed somewhat bitter, but he'd had far worse. Quietly, he nuzzled her neck, inhaling her scent, now mixed with a hint of his.  _ Mine _ flashed through his thoughts, but he knew better than to voice it. One of the first things he had learned about Helen Magnus was that she belonged to no one, ever.

“Nikola…” she breathed, lapping at his neck as it slowly closed. She must have dropped her knife, because her other hand fisted in his hair. Her intentions he knew immediately, almost as if they were his own, and so it came as no surprise when she pressed herself against him, sliding one knee up the side of his leg. He was hardening, quickly, and he loosed his fingers from her hair to hitch her leg over his hip, grazing his teeth over the quickly-healing incision on her shoulder. “Is the door locked?” he murmured against her skin, nearly a growl.

“It’s the middle of the night. Besides, do you really care?” Helen set her lips to his jaw, nibbling, and if she did break the skin once or twice, he hardly minded.

“No.” And he slid his hands to her thighs and lifted her up. She was heavier than she'd been as a human — denser musculature, he supposed — but he could still hold her easily. Wrapping her legs around him —  _ God, yes _ , and he wasn't sure if he'd voiced that or not — she rolled her hips, sought her own friction against his erection. He groaned, catching a glimpse of her devious smile before she bit down on his earlobe, hard.  _ Minx. _ Helen knew all-too-well that some kinds of pain turned him on, and she was making full use of it, as if he wasn't aroused enough already.

He turned towards the nearest wall and slammed her against it, relishing her answering grunt and the way her smile turned into a part-snarl. Bracing himself against the wall with one hand, he traced down her cheek with the other, using just enough pressure to leave red trails with his claws that didn't immediately fade. She tilted her head and caught one of his fingers between her teeth, holding it, running her tongue over the skin and meeting his gaze with her own darkening one.

“On some occasions I really do despise your preference for pants when fighting, dearest,” he remarked as he reached down to unfasten the button on the form-fitting leather. The sight they provided he enjoyed, the hindrance to their current activities far less so.

She rolled her hips, not helping at all. “They're no obstacle to  _ me _ enjoying myself,” she said, glee practically radiating from her, as she tightened her thighs around him and he thrust against her, instinctively. They weren't exactly an obstacle to him enjoying himself, either — and so he acquiesced silently to what he could tell she wanted, holding her to him with a firm grip on her backside, slipping two fingers inside her fly and pressing gently against her clit through damp, lace-trimmed silk.

Helen stiffened, no longer able to conceal the dazed lust in her gaze, and moaned, luxuriantly. “ _ Nikola _ ,” fell silently from her lips, but he heard it all the same.

“Helen.” He smirked, beginning to circle the swollen nub, sneaking his fingers underneath the cloth and tracing patterns over it, and he couldn't quite resist throwing a few symbols of the vampiric language in as well: _ love, _ and  _ forever _ , and finally  _ this is power _ .

“Bastard.” Her eyelids fluttered, and she sunk her claws deep into his shoulder. He shuddered at the pain that turned to pleasure.

He  _ tsk _ ed, grinning. “My birth was entirely legitimate.” With a playful growl, he tugged her earlobe between his teeth, then brushed his lips over her neck, gradually nipping and sucking harder, though careful not to break the skin again. She turned her head towards him, drawing in a sharp breath — taking in his scent, he realized with a shock, and that knowledge sent him bucking against her, against his hand between them.

Her fingers twisted in his hair at the back of his head, holding her to him, as she undid his belt with the other, finally slipping one hand inside his trousers to stroke him. He retracted his claws — the state half-between human and vampire somewhat taxing to maintain, but he’d had enough practice over the years to be confident he wouldn't lose it — and slid both fingers inside of her, curling them, pressing on her clit with his thumb as he thrust his fingers in and out of her, firmly massaging that spot on her inner walls he knew so well, after all these years.

She clenched around him, and after a few moments shattered in his arms with a wordless, echoing cry, one muffled as she bit into the side of his neck, hard. Her hand tightened around him, almost brutally, but he came from the sudden shock of sensation, spurting over her fingers. Locking his knees so they wouldn't give out, he only barely avoided breaking her skin himself as he mirrored her, setting his tongue and teeth to her skin, wanting her filling his senses.

Slowly, he returned to himself, his breathing heavy, her muscles still tightening around his fingers in her aftershocks. She laved his neck, languidly — she wasn't sucking, simply wiping away his blood. It ached pleasantly where her teeth still held his skin open, and he idly wished the mark would stay for more than a mere few minutes, outward proof he was hers for all to see. Her tight grip on his softening, sensitive erection was nearing the unpleasant kind of painful, so he gently slid his fingers from her — prompting a small noise of loss — and pried her hand from him.

Still, he was loathe to leave this moment. Lacing his fingers between hers, he nuzzled her neck, brushing chaste kisses to any part of her skin his lips neared, taking in her scent and the quick rhythm of her pulse beneath her skin. She was alive, and they were together, and that was all that mattered.

He didn't know how long it was before she lifted her head, pressed one last tonguing kiss to his neck, and loosed her legs from around him. Gently, he let her down, and she immediately turned to pick up her discarded blade, then his, not looking him in the eye. “I'm still angry with you.”

He swallowed. “I know.” A slow exhale, gathering his courage, then he added, “Just tell me one thing… were you really ready to die?”

“I wasn't afraid of dying. I never have been. It was going to be the next great adventure.” Her voice was even, matter-of-fact, as she turned towards the door, but it dropped as she continued, low in confession. “But I didn't want to leave you behind, alone.”

He rushed to catch up with her, his heart jumping from a standstill to a staccato. “Helen.” He reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder; she deftly twisted away.

“Don't let it go to your head.”

Swallowing, he let his hand drop, pure regret washing over him for the first time in a very, very long time. “I'm sorry. I was selfish.”

“I know.” She glanced back at him, a corner of her mouth twitching wryly. “Your trousers are stained.”

He grimaced, and began to shed his shredded blazer, to carry it and hide the area.

“No one will see, Nikola.”

Still, he draped it over his forearm in front of him. “You need to eat, Helen — we both do, after that.”

She nodded, with a long, slow exhale. “I'll meet you in the — feed storage.” She grimaced.

He chuckled, darkly. “Now you know why I always objected to it being called that. Or at least to my sustenance being kept there.”

Helen tilted her head towards the door with an intentionally audible, longsuffering sigh. “Go. Clean up.”

“Care to join me?” He eyed her up and down, with smirk of feigned nonchalance. “You could probably use a shower yourself.” (Not that he was complaining, exactly — her sweaty and disheveled because of him was one of his favorite sights.)

“Is it going to  _ just _ be a shower?” She raised her eyebrows, shooting him an arch look.

Surprise made him drop all pretense; he hadn't expected her to actually consider it. “If you like,  _ dušo moja, _ ” he murmured.  _ My soul. _ It was true in every possible way.

“Scalp massage?” She bit her lip, a cheeky grin forming on her face, and he nearly laughed from relief. They were alive, and together, and they were going to be all right.

“Of course.” He held his free arm out for her. With a brief but genuine smile, Helen shifted both blades to her other hand and took it.


End file.
